In the wide fireplace on a pile of white ashes the logs had a deep crimson glow; and turned towards them Dona Rita reclined on her side enveloped in the skins of wild beasts like a charming and savage young chieftain before a camp fire.  She never even raised her eyes, giving me the opportunity to contemplate mutely that adolescent, delicately masculine head, so mysteriously feminine in the power of instant seduction, so infinitely suave in its firm design, almost childlike in the freshness of detail:  altogether ravishing in the inspired strength of the modelling.  That precious head reposed in the palm of her hand; the face was slightly flushed (with anger perhaps).  She kept her eyes obstinately fixed on the pages of a book which she was holding with her other hand.  I had the time to lay my infinite adoration at her feet whose white insteps gleamed below the dark edge of the fur out of quilted blue silk bedroom slippers, embroidered with small pearls.  I had never seen them before; I mean the slippers.  The gleam of the insteps, too, for that matter.  I lost myself in a feeling of deep content, something like a foretaste of a time of felicity which must be quiet or it couldn’t be eternal.  I had never tasted such perfect quietness before.  It was not of this earth.  I had gone far beyond.  It was as if I had reached the ultimate wisdom beyond all dreams and all passions.  She was That which is to be contemplated to all Infinity.

The perfect stillness and silence made her raise her eyes at last, reluctantly, with a hard, defensive expression which I had never seen in them before.  And no wonder!  The glance was meant for Therese and assumed in self-defence.  For some time its character did not change and when it did it turned into a perfectly stony stare of a kind which I also had never seen before.  She had never wished so much to be left in peace.  She had never been so astonished in her life.  She had arrived by the evening express only two hours before Senor Ortega, had driven to the house, and after having something to eat had become for the rest of the evening the helpless prey of her sister who had fawned and scolded and wheedled and threatened in a way that outraged all Rita’s feelings.  Seizing this unexpected occasion Therese had displayed a distracting versatility of sentiment:  rapacity, virtue, piety, spite, and false tenderness—­while, characteristically enough, she unpacked the dressing-bag, helped the sinner to get ready for bed, brushed her hair, and finally, as a climax, kissed her hands, partly by surprise and partly by violence.  After that she had retired from the field of battle slowly, undefeated, still defiant, firing as a last shot the impudent question:  “Tell me only, have you made your will, Rita?” To this poor Dona Rita with the spirit of opposition strung to the highest pitch answered:  “No, and I don’t mean to”—­being under the impression that this was what her sister wanted her to do.  There can be no doubt, however, that all Therese wanted was the information.